1:37pm: An Excellent Time
by firedancer
Summary: Rentfic, M/R humor. The trials and tribulations of two boys, just trying to hook up. Sound easy? Mark and Roger prove you wrong again. **FINALLY UPDATED! 6/03/03**
1. Roger: Duct tape fixes everything!

1:37pm: An Excellent Time  
  
by Morgan Giles (firedancer)  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, they would hate me, just like dear old mom and dad. At any rate, don't sue me. I have no money; all you'd end up with is too many guitar picks and some CDs you wouldn't like.  
  
  
  
"Today's the day. No more excuses. I'm going to tell Mark I love him." Roger paused in his thoughts. "At 1:37pm, exactly. Just like in Empire Records." He nodded resolutely to himself, then glanced over at his alarm clock. 12:32pm. Damn the man.  
  
He laid back on his bed. An hour wasn't much time to figure up a way to confess your adoration. Roger grabbed a notebook from underneath his pillow and began to write. His hand flew over the paper, spilling out his innermost thoughts in black ink. Ten minutes later, he was done. Taking a breath, he reread the letter carefully. Perfect.  
  
"Well, that wasn't so hard," Roger sighed, smiling. He grabbed an envelope from his bedside table and neatly wrote 'Mark' on the front side. The musician ripped the letter out of his notebook and folded it neatly and evenly. (Author's note: You should correctly assume that Roger doing something neatly is the same as Roger doing something normally, or even messily. It's doesn't make a difference on your word choice. Saying he did something 'neatly' makes him feel special. ::pets rock star's hair::) Roger neatly stuffed the sheets of paper into the envelope. He brought it up to his tongue to seal.  
  
As the envelope approached eye level Roger realized that the blank part of one sheet was sticking out. He neatly ripped it off, and smiled, satisfied and proud of himself. That is, until he realized that it had not been a corner of paper but rather the adhesive flap of the envelope. Roger looked wildly around the room for a way to fix it. Box of new envelopes -too easy and obvious. It's not masculine to do the easy and obvious thing, and Roger is, above all things, masculine. Lump of chewing gum on the floor -nothing says lovin' like already chewed gum! Right. He shook his head and continued to look. A moldy orange -not that this would have any adhesive power, but it should be mentioned. Just in case you had ever, say, wanted to visit the loft or have Roger's children. Finally, his gaze rested on a roll of duct tape. Perfect! Duct tape is masculine, and yet it still manages to say, "I cared enough to fix this for you." Roger grabbed the thick grey tape. Ten minutes later, the flimsy white envelope was encased in five layers of duct tape, and the roll was conciderably thinner. The guitarist nodded, satisfied. For his final touch, he opened a bottle of White Out and neatly painted 'Mark' on the front side.  
  
Roger looked at his work and smiled. He was done with that part of the process, with half an hour to spare. "Now for the hard part: Mimi," he thought. Roger tucked the thick envelope in the back pocket of his plaid pants. He walked out of his room and to the loft door. Out the door and down a flight of stairs lived Mimi, the whirlwind also known as his girlfriend. He only hoped that she wouldn't scream too loud.  
  
Author's note: I blame this on watching too many videos on the Underground Railroad in history class. The first one- fine. After that, I was using my yellow legal pad for not-so-educational purposes, like this. There are at least two more slightly-humorous chapters after this. I welcome ideas, inspirations, and criticisms. 


	2. Mark: I love your cooking!

Author's note: Yes, after a long time of laziness and sincere lack of humor in my life (emotional breakdowns, etc.), this little attempt at humor is back. Thanks for waiting.  
  
1:37pm: An Excellent Time  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Mark sat quietly on top of the table with his camera resting beside him. Back in Scarsdale, he would've never dreamed of using a table as a couch, bed, or dance floor. After getting over his initial disgust at Roger's habit of perching on that particular piece of furniture, he had begun slowly to pick it up. Mark took a deep breath and took one more sip of his luke-warm tea. He sat the cup back down on the table and turned his gaze from the tealeaves floating in the bottom to Roger's bedroom door. Was he in there, still asleep? Could he be dreaming of the diminutive documentarian? Mark shook his head to himself. Roger is going to be a rockstar. He's going to play his guitar to arenas full of screaming preteen girls. Rockstars don't have geeky, obsessive boyfriends. What are you thinking, Cohen?  
  
He slid off the table to a standing position and ran his hands through his messy dark blonde hair. He took a few steps over to his roommate's door and raised his hand to knock. Oh God, what am I going to say? "Hey Roger, I just wanted to say that I've been in love with you for almost six years now and I…" No. "I should tell you…" No, that's been done. "My brotherly love for you is incestuous." Ick. He took a chance and knocked lightly anyways, despite the empty echoes in his mind.  
  
"Roger? Hey, Roge!" he called out. Hearing no answer, Mark turned the doorknob and peered in through the crack. He scanned the room quickly, trying to discern if Roger was dead, hurt, or simply asleep. No signs of life. Not that it's easy to tell in this mess. Mark wrinkled his nose distastefully when his eyes reached the moldy orange in its final resting place on the floor. And he wonders why we never have any food. It's all decaying on his floor!  
  
Mark closed the door and walked back to the table. He pulled himself back up to the cross-legged position he had been in earlier. I am zen, he told himself. I am as calm as a Hindu cow. Mark didn't believe it. The loft was quiet and he had no choice but to do one thing. He picked up his camera and turned it on. Swinging it around to face himself, he began the narration.  
  
"July 14th, 1:09pm, Eastern Standard Time. Roger, I have a confession to make." He sat in silence, staring at the lens. A confession to make… A confession to make... How do I say what I feel? Mark's hands began to shake, making the camera unsteady. "No day but today, right?" Mark closed his eyes and thought of the night Roger had tried to make spaghetti. That never failed to make him smile. Seeing Roger draped in noodles –he still didn't know how that happened- with red sauce streaks in his hair gave Mark a spark of confidence. You can't be afraid of anyone you've seen covered in pasta. He took a deep cleansing breath. "Roger, I love you. I love everything about you. I love your songs, and your sense of humor. I love your crazy ideas. I love how your hair defies gravity in the morning. I love your cooking." Mark giggled at the thought, but soon sobered up to complete his filming. "I love you. And I'll understand if you don't feel the same way about me. I just… six years is a long time to hold something in." He closed his eyes again and turned off the camera. It was done. There's no turning back now.  
  
Mark rewound the tape in his camera to the beginning of his narration and carefully removed it. He found an empty case in his room and neatly placed the tape inside. ('Neatly' for Mark isn't the same thing as 'neatly' for Roger. 'Neatly' for Mark means…well, 'neatly'.) He closed the case and slapped a Post-It note on the front. "Roger-" it read, "Please watch when I'm not around. –Mark" That should cover it, unless he… Oh, no. Mark tore the Post-It note off of the case and quickly added a new one where it had once been. "Roger-" it now read, "Please watch when no one else is around. Yes, this means Mimi! –Mark"  
  
Mark pushed the butterflies in his stomach down and walked through the loft to Roger's room. Entering once again, he started to place the tape on Roger's bed. He thought better of himself –after all, there was a good possibility that once he laid it down, it would never been seen again. Mark turned around and went back to his place on the table. His camera, an empty cup of tea, and the all-important tape were lined up beside him. The clock read 1:20pm. Mark sighed and knew he would just have to wait patiently until Roger returned home. I am as calm as a Hindu cow, he told himself. I am zen. 


	3. Mimi: Of course I have superpowers!

Author's note: Yes, I know that this took an ungodly amount of time to be posted. I had half of it written, and then school attacked me. Not only did it attack me, but it attacked hardcore. So, having said that, I proudly present the third chapter of "1:37 p.m.: An Excellent Time". Dedicated to Ellen, for beta-ing, and to Chris, for actually yelling a lot of Mimi's dialogue at me when we were breaking up. Thanks, and enjoy!  
  
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"Hey, honey," Mimi cooed. The short brunette stirred a pan of something over the little camp stove, turning around to grin and greet her boyfriend when he came through the door. She blew him a delicate kiss and turned back to her cooking. Roger smiled nervously and sniffed the air. Definately mushroom soup. His nose wrinkled. (We should note, however, that it's not like Roger had any latitude to talk about who was a bad cook. Everyone in the building had known of his cooking skills after the Infamous Spaghetti Incident.)  
  
"Baby?" Roger ventured cautiously. "We need to, uh, talk."  
  
"Roger." Mimi sighed and turned to face him. "How many times do I have to tell you? I was not the one who taped that Billy Graham thing over your favorite video. I don't even have that kind of technology." She turned back to the soup, shaking her head slightly. It wasn't her fault that someone else had clumsy fingers, a VCR, and a religious channel. Mimi highly suspected Benny. He'd recently gotten out of the whole slumlording thing and gotten back into the church. The building had improved since then, so she wasn't complaining. Much. The missionaries who knocked at her door constantly, saying, "I have come to lead you to the Lord--Benny sent me," were more than a little annoying.  
  
"No, it's not that. This is, uh, this is very hard for me to say." Roger looked down at the ground, shifting from one foot to another. He knew his girlfriend's temper all too well. Roger wasn't really as in control in the relationship as he seemed. In fact, he was really quite "whipped", in the subservient sense. Sometimes, literally. He hadn't realized what he was getting into when he and Mimi started going out. Who *really* wants a sex-crazed dominatrix with bad taste in music? He gulped and opened his mouth. Like usual, it was the stupidest action he could have taken. "Mimi, we've had a great time together and-"  
  
"Had?" Mimi put the stirring spoon down on the counter and snapped her head around to look at the blundering musician. Her voice raised. "HAD? 'We've had a great time together, but no more'? Or 'We've had a great time together, and let's hope there's fifty more great years to follow'?" Mimi's eyes narrowed. "Which is it, Roger? Are you leaving for Santa Fe again, or are you leaving me for someone else?"  
  
Roger's jaw would have dropped to the ground, if that that had been physically possible. Mimi crossed the room, leaving the soup unattended. Looking like a cat on the prowl, Mimi stalked over to where Roger stood, with a surprised smile on his face. 'This is great! All I'll have to do is tell her it's Mark, and then it'll be okay. Maybe she'll feed me soup,' he thought.  
  
It seemed that Roger never learned.  
  
"Yeah! I'm in love with Mark-- how'd you know?" He was about to sigh in relief that the worst part of telling her was over, when a pointy heel hit him in the middle of his stomach. Mimi had thrown her shoes at him and was heading back to her bedroom for more ammunition.   
  
"Do you think I can't see? Do you think we're all blind?" Roger immediately reached around for the envelope in his back pocket. Maybe she did have X-ray vision. He had always suspected so. 'It would be just like her to have magic powers and not let me in on it,' he thought. "Everybody knows, Roger!" she continued. "And I'm just a joke to everyone, because I stick with you anyway. I'm a stupid, selfish girl, and I hate you for making me this way. I hate you!" Her words cut through the air, leaving an echo as she sunk to her knees. "I hate you," she murmered to herself. Mimi had collapsed in a small pile on the floor, where she kept telling herself that she hated Roger.   
  
The mushroom soup began to boil over. It slowly crept up to the brim of the pot, trickling quietly down the sides at first. A loud pop sounded, as the soup came to full boil. The exploding discount store soup dispersed itself to various parts of the room. Suddenly, the soup smelled very delicious to Roger. It had been a while since Roger had tasted good soup... the last time he was very sick, Mark had fixed him some homemade soup to make him feel better. Though he had appreciated Mark's effort, Roger had really wanted something can-shaped. Something with a slightly metallic aftertaste. Something that screamed, "I only cost five-cents if my can is bashed in!" The ignored soup was calling to him. Roger turned away from the crumpled ball that Mimi had formed herself into and headed towards the soup pan.  
  
Mimi looked up from the floor to see Roger dipping a spoon into the lumpy grey concoction. "I hate you," she muttered. Slowly, quietly, she stood up. Shaking slightly, she walked purposefully to the counter. She turned the heat down on the camp stove's burner and slipped her hand around the handle of the pot. Composing herself, she said only three words to her now ex-boyfriend.  
  
"Is it good?"  
  
Roger nodded enthusiastically, looking like a small child. Mimi smiled faintly before turning the pan upside down over his head. 


End file.
